


My best-laid plans to sand

by risinggreatness



Series: Circle 'round the sun [87]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3371858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risinggreatness/pseuds/risinggreatness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Skywalkers have always had a way of shaking up the Larses’ lives</p>
            </blockquote>





	My best-laid plans to sand

“What are you doing?”

Shmi’s son sticks his face near the stove, inspecting the pot Owen stirs. Owen side-steps away, unused to the boy who finds his way into every nook and cranny of the homestead.

“Cooking stew for the noon meal.”

“Sounds boring.”

There is a long pause where Owen feels every awkward second pass painfully as he continues to stir. It is an unusual comment from someone, who until days ago had no say in what his daily tasks were.

Owen shudders at the memory of the market. If Anakin Skywalker notices his intense uncomfortableness, he does not comment on it.

“What’s in it?”

Owen exhales shakily, thankful for one-word answers, “Womprat.”

“Did you shoot it yourself?”

“No.” Then fearful of judgment from a boy five years younger than him, finishes quickly, “But I did go hunting with pa.”

Anakin nods, “Do you like cooking?”

It’s an odd question. It’s just something he’s had to do for as long as he can remember.

“I suppose. It has to be done or else no work gets done on the harvesters.”

Anakin lights up at the mention of the machinery. When Owen took him around the equipment the other day, the boy did all the talking, as if he’d been a farmer all his life. There had been no need for Owen to speak, which was just fine by him.

“Think it’s done?” the boy asks, sniffing the stew appraisingly.

“Want a taste?” Owen asks, offering him a spoon, taking another for himself.

The meat is overdone, but the spices are okay; Owen was too distracted by Anakin’s questions.

The boy’s face is screwed up in concentration. Owen waits.

“It doesn’t taste like –” the boy uses a Huttese term Owen doesn’t know. He must look confused, because Anakin considers the unfamiliar word then translates, “Shit.” Without missing a beat, “Can you teach me how to make it?”

Owen stares at his feet, but realizes, coming from where he does, this is quite the compliment from Anakin Skywalker.

“Yeah, sure. Only don’t let the meat stay on the heat so long when you do it.”

\----------

It doesn’t take Anakin long to catch up with the group making their way to the Sunber homestead. He isn’t even out of breath, despite the heat of the high afternoon suns. Sam Brunk groans at the prospect of “some dumb kid” tagging along.

“You be quiet,” Dama hisses. Owen seems to duck his head lower.

Beru’s grateful her sister intervened mostly for Owen’s sake, but a little for Anakin Skywalker’s as well. It’s not really his fault they all have nothing to say to each other.

Upon arrival, they all file into Janek’s mother’s cool kitchen, ready for colder drinks. It would be cramped, but when Beru looks around, they’re short one.

“Your stepbrother went to look at the new vaporators,” Janek points out as he hands out glasses to everyone. “If he messes anything up, my pa’ll have my hide.”

“He won’t,” Owen says quietly.

“You don’t have to make excuses for him just because his ma is yours now,” Haro says. Beru sends him a sharp kick under the table. He visibly winces, but doesn’t yell at his sister’s retribution.

Owen doesn’t say anything else. Conversation moves away from Anakin Skywalker’s peculiarity to the podracing finals. They all want to speculate, none of them want to place real bets.

On the way home, the group splits into various directions back to their respective homesteads. Anakin leads the way, preferring not to talk endlessly about the season’s prospects. Owen falls to the way back. It is almost time for Haro, Dama, and Beru to head east to their home, but Beru slows her pace to walk with Owen.

They don’t say anything, but it’s nice.

Owen speaks unexpectedly, “Thanks. You and your sister didn’t need to stick up for him.”

“It’s not your job alone just because the other boys feel the need to be mean.”

Owen pauses, clearly thinking on his next words.

“Yeah… but sometimes, I agree with them.”

Beru bites down on her tongue. Even in the lowering light, she sees Owen’s flush in frustration. She glances quickly at the road ahead, lest he notice she’s looking too closely.

The three Whitesuns on their way home, Haro bumps into Beru.

“That’s for earlier. You gonna marry him?” he drags out.

“Maybe I will,” she replies tartly, then begins walking faster so neither Haro or Dama see the grin she struggles to hide spreading across her face.

\----------

Methodically folding clothes at the edge of the bed, Shmi thinks on all the arguments, good and bad, for sending Anakin off to Anchorhead.

“He won’t shirk his work here,” she promises out loud.

From the other side of the bed, Cliegg responds, “I didn’t think he would, but the boy’s got to have a little freedom.”

The word rolls off his tongue easily; Shmi feels her heart ache. Gods forbid she hold him back from something more.

“Stop fretting and come here.”

Shmi swats at him playfully with a fresh towel, but obliges them both all the same.

\----------

Owen may bristle under his pa’s gentle teasing when Beru greets him openly with a kiss, but Beru teases back, “Just wait, Mr. Lars. When I’m your daughter-in-law, you’ll have to learn all about teasing daughters, but we don’t take it lying down.”

Cliegg laughs, “I’ll talk to your pa about that.”

Beru thinks it is odd Shmi doesn’t come out to watch the men leave for Anchorhead, but perhaps the morning chores take up more time than expected. If that’s the case, Beru mustn’t really linger.

“Hello? Shmi?” Beru calls out to a seemingly empty homestead.

She walks around the perimeter and through the garage and dining room, to find Shmi crouched on the floor, back to the door, scrubbing the floor vigorously, almost violently. Shmi turns around, startled by the company. Her face is pale and she looks dreadfully ill.

Beru rushes over to her, recoiling when she sees it is blood Shmi tries to remove from the ground, soaking her skirt.

“You shouldn’t be doing this. I’ll run for a doctor, for Mr. Lars, for –”

Weakly, “Don’t worry; the worst of it is over. Just help me to bed.”

Beru finds it takes very little effort to help Shmi from the kitchen to the main bedroom. She hands her a clean nightgown, then returns to finish the unforgiving task.

When she returns to check on Shmi, Beru finds her with her eyes closed, dry tear streaks on her cheeks. She opens her eyes when Beru sits at her bedside.   Beru hands her a cup of cold water.

“Thank you,” is all she says for a long while.

Beru twists at the fabric of her skirt. She wonders if Shmi’s fallen asleep when the other woman speaks, “Did your mother ever tell you the story of the man and his wheel of stars?”

Of course mama had, but Beru obliges, “I would love to hear it again.”

“No, let’s speak of the woman who gave him the wheel…”

It is well after dark when the three shadows return. Cliegg and Anakin go straight to Shmi; Beru buries her face in Owen’s shoulder.

They wait outside in the dark for far too long.

\----------

They bury him between Shmi and Aika in the fleeting minutes of the first dawn. Cliegg Lars will slowly return to the fine sand he battled wordlessly in life.

Beru moves about to speak to their visitors. Owen doesn’t move from the spot after the words are said over the grave.

Huff squeezes his shoulder, “You did right by him. He was proud of you.”

As blistered hands are proof of a good day of labor, the words do their work. Owen joins Beru in grateful thanks for those in attendance.

\----------

Owen doesn’t know how Beru can endure it. He can barely stand it himself.

They were going to be parents. With both ma and pa gone, the place seemed too empty. They watch their friends’ homes fill with third generations. ( _They are young yet._ )

She keeps herself close as they go about work on the farm. Owen relies on her to be the one to speak for them. He doesn’t know how to give a voice to their grief.

Beru was so sure; the doctor from Anchorhead was so sure.

Then they weren’t. The same doctor claims stress at the loss of parents, the record dry spell taxing everyone’s nerves. ( _They are young yet._ )

At night, Owen pulls Beru closer.

\----------

Luke’s forehead barely reaches the counter, but Owen’s got the notion to teach him how to cook.

“He’s _four_ ,” Beru sighs, more amused than annoyed.

“All the sooner he can be helpful around the house,” Owen reasons, clearly not thinking of ways the baby can contribute to the homestead’s efficiency.

“Do you two want any help?” she asks from the kitchen doorway.

“No!” proclaims Luke, cheerily emphatic.

He stirs ( _slops, is more like it_ ), propped on Owen’s hip; Owen, holds to his nephew with one arm, reaches across the room for more things to put in the pot.

The kitchen isn’t clean when they all sit to sample Luke’s first attempt at wompart stew.

“Very delicious,” Beru smiles, and she truly means it.

“It’s not bad,” says Owen, but it’s hard to miss the corners of his mouth curling up.

Luke smacks his lips, satisfied.

He even helps with the cleanup.

\----------

Hands roam the bare expanse of her stomach, but Beru feels the knots bunch, her guilt all but apparent.

“You got something to say?” Owen asks to the dark.

She sits to confess her crime, words spilling out like a leaky faucet, “I spoke to Padmé Amidala today. She’s coming here, only for a week though and she won’t say a word of who she is. Owen, she just needs to see Luke, surely we can give her that. We have him, and she has nothing. I knew you wouldn’t like –”

Sitting rigidly next to her, “You’re damn right I don’t like it. This is going to give us hell – we’re betting a very fine bet _he_ won’t ever be back here and to throw that woman into the mix –”

“Luke’s mother,” Beru interjects coldly.

The dull throbbing reality they are not Luke’s parents stares them baldly in the face too often. Beru’s simple reminder ends the argument.

There is not much assurance in Owen’s back pressed along hers.

In the morning, he sighs into her ear, resigned, “A week.”

\----------

“What’s taking Aunt Beru so long?” Luke asks Uncle Owen as they hoist the repaired condensers on the south ridge.

“Why don’t you run along ask her?” he answers the question with another question.

When Luke runs back to the homestead, he stops occasionally to watch the clouds of sand and dust he kicks up settle before making another quick sprint.

“Hey Aunt Beru!” he yells to the empty courtyard.

No response.

When he doesn’t find her anywhere, he cautiously knocks on his aunt and uncle’s bedroom door. It opens, after a pause, Aunt Beru before him with a bucket and the rags used to clean the floor in hand.

“I’m sorry dear. Tell your uncle I’m not too well today.”

She doesn’t look too well either. Like that time Laze dared him to eat worms.

“I’ll stay here,” Luke volunteers.

Aunt Beru manages a half-smile, “Looking for an excuse to avoid chores? I don’t think so. Go on, I’ll be alright.”

Luke gives her an encouraging smile back, not totally convinced. He lingers in the doorway a moment after Aunt Beru steps out towards the kitchen.

There’s no sign of anything spilled.

\----------

Winds can howl on Tatooine, but none have been so deafening as with the sight before Luke now.

Sand stings eyes, but not like this.

He can leave it all forever, but at the highest price. His resolve against the Empire hardens for good.

They have to go; they killed his family.

The stench lingers on his clothes.

**Author's Note:**

> See author bio for discussion on this 'verse.


End file.
